


Don't Ask, Don't Tell

by Sapphic_Futurist



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Tony Stark, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mentally Ill Superheros, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, grounding exercises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24707131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphic_Futurist/pseuds/Sapphic_Futurist
Summary: Tony is an enigma. Bucky is a little too friendly with the communal refrigerator.--In which the Avengers are all struggling with nightmares and Tony can help everyone but himself.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 384





	Don't Ask, Don't Tell

**Author's Note:**

> This work has depictions of nightmares and panic attacks. It also contains actual grounding exercises used appropriately and everything will be okay, but read at your own discretion if this is a delicate area for you.
> 
> This author takes feedback willingly, but with a delicate heart. Enjoy.

** 1\. Steve **

Tony is an enigma.

During the day he’s sharp and quick with his tongue, slicing through tension like a knife with his words. He’s always light and airy, with teasing quips and sarcastic commentary that slowly but surely seems to bring everyone back together. It’s not hard to see, because he’s made Bucky a part of it – welcoming him in as if Bucky was just another unassuming member in this disjointed band of brothers (and sisters).

When things are tense and uneasy, Tony’s the first to insert himself with a scandalous story or a self-deprecating comment and all of a sudden, they’re moving forward. Moving on.

Stark claims it’s all behind them, and as a team they carefully construct walls around topics that shouldn’t be spoken of. Topics that hurt too much, and threaten to crack their already precarious foundation.

It seems Bucky is the only one that notices the structures that Tony builds around himself; they protect the softest, most vulnerable parts of him. At first, Bucky thinks everyone must see right through it too, because it seems so glaringly obvious. But with time he realizes that no one bats an eye when Tony stiffens if Steve walks up behind him, or how Tony is pointedly absent from mealtime when the teammates he’s marked ‘safe’ – Rhodey, Vision, Peter, occasionally Natasha – aren’t available.

It’s sad really, how unperceptive his teammates are. Bucky feels for him, having heard enough stories from Steve and Sam about Tony’s eccentricities, his arrogance and his ego.

How quickly they’ve seemed to forget that, and accept what Bucky can only assume is a half-cocked version of the confusing billionaire. Maybe it’s just enough of the mask of his old self that no one else notices the cocktail of uncertainty, broken trust, fear, even, that appear to subdue and exhaust him.

Yet despite the exhaustion, Tony gives everything he has. It’s a-given really, considering they’re all here, learning to be a team again despite the fact that it looks as if one bad day might destroy him.

Bucky catalogues Tony’s behaviours like he’s a rare specimen, collecting data on his behaviour to draw his own conclusions and hypothesis.

He wonders, initially, if Tony is trying to help everyone else because that gives him some sense of contentment or peace. It doesn’t sound right in his mind, biased by what Steve and Natasha have told him about the grandiose Stark Ego, but that seems to be what it looks like. 

“Tony sure does a lot for everyone.” Bucky says to Steve over breakfast one morning, a mountain of greasy breakfast meats spilling over the edge of his plate.

“Mmf?”

“Don’t be gross, punk. Sarah’d be ashamed.” Bucky chides him and Steve grins. “You just always talked about how conceited he was.”

Steve looks sheepish. “Maybe you caught me at a bias time when it comes to Tony. Conceited probably wasn’t a fair descriptor.”

“You don’t say?” Bucky drawled, rolling his eyes.

“Natasha’s the one who marked him for a narcissist.” Steve defends, lamely, shoving an entire slice of toast sideways into his mouth.

“So, he’s always been like this, then? Doing stuff for people? Giving people stuff they don’t really need, and just generally taking care of everything?” Bucky waves a hand off to one side.

“I guess so. I can’t say I’ve ever really given it much thought. He’s always been the tech behind the Avengers. Why, did you need something? I’m sure you can just ask him, Buck.”

Bucky gives him an indulgent smile and decides not to push it, because Steve is so blissfully ignorant sometimes. The tech was the last thing he was asking about, wondering after the way that Natasha’s favourite juice was always fully stocked in the fridge, and how a video game console magically appeared in the communal living room when Clint and Thor were at the Compound at the same time.

How everyone had rooms that felt like home and nobody had to clean or cook or do anything aside from exactly what they wanted to at any given time.

Bucky spends the rest of breakfast listening to Steve ramble about everything and nothing, getting lost in the drone of his voice just as easily as he would have seventy years ago.

***

Since his return to the United States, Bucky has been working through his demons.

Adjusting is difficult, and coming out of cryo this time had almost killed him. The disorientation of waking up without new orders, new direction, limitless _freedom_ had felt absolutely crippling.

Shuri likened it to needing structure and routine. She hadn’t been completely wrong, and knowing when he’d make his way to the gym for drills, and which nights were his for patrol became a piece of the puzzle, sure.

But it’s so much more than that.

It’s still hearing the faint whispers of previous missions in his mind, the last unfinished mission forcing its way to the surface in the transition moments from sleep to wakefulness when he finds himself thinking about his hands around Steve’s throat, choking the life from his oversized body.

It’s waiting for the next mission just so he can stop feeling like he’s failed when he slaps Steve with a hearty hug, or joins him at a ball game.

Late into the night is the most difficult because there’s no one to talk to. No one to laugh with, watch movies with, snack with, spar with. Nothing to keep his mind busy and drown out the remnants of the Solider he carriers with him everywhere.

And always there, in the recesses of his mind, are whispers of words too quiet to hear, but too loud to ignore. He knows them anywhere anyways.

Bucky feels like the world’s most bizarre voyeur when he stumbles upon something that actually helps.

It’s completely by accident. He’s prowling the kitchen late at night, snacking on a back of shredded cheese in the dark, drowning the nightmares in dairy after he’s walked in on Hawkeye doing the same thing last week.

At this point, he’ll try anything once.

Steve pads down the hallway towards him – he’d known those obnoxiously heavy footfalls anywhere… Steve would have made a terrible assassin – and he tries to dart out of view but stumbles over his own feet, cheese scattering.

Fuck. This would be way worse because then Steve would ask questions. Pry.

Bucky shoots a dirty look at the cleaning bot that rolls towards him with interest, and shoves it across the floor with his bare foot. Offering a dejected beep, it trundles back towards the home port to sulk.

Steve doesn’t seem to hear him, or take notice of him curled up on the floor beside the refrigerator.

“FRIDAY?” Steve’s voice is tight and strained.

“Yes Captain?”

“Can you run the Popsicle protocol please?” One of Tony’s protocol names, surely.

“It’s June 2nd, 2017 at 2:47am. You are currently at the Avengers Compound. There are no immediate threats to global security or to the Compound. Mr. Stark is presently at home, awake, and well. Agent Barton is presently at his familial home, asleep, and well. Agent Romanoff…” FRIDAY continues to give him a recap of everyone’s status, and though Bucky tenses when the AI gets to him, she remarks that he is indeed at home, awake, and well.

He wonders what Tony uses to determine her parameters for ‘well’ as he’s pressed between the wall and the fridge, trembling and trying to suppress the urge to jump Steve from behind the couch and beat him into unconsciousness.

The protocol ends with a reminder to take deep breaths, and Bucky notices that he takes his own deep breaths in time with the prompting.

The fridge is vibrating with its internal compressors humming in a way that Bucky registers as comforting and reassuring. It’s surprisingly warm.

Steve lets out a heavy sigh from the couch.

When Bucky leans away from the side of the fridge and angles forward. He can make out Steve’s feet on the floor below the couch, unusually covered in heavy woolen socks for the season.

The elevator swishing open silently startles him back, pushing him further into the little nook.

“Steve?” Tony’s voice is gentle and inquisitive. Bucky watches him stroll past the kitchenette without a second glance.

He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t want to be here. There’s no real way he can _not_ be here right now, without being noticed.

“Hey.” Steve murmurs.

“Nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you, uh, do you want to tell me about it? Or I could get someone else if you wanted – Sam, or Bucky, or–”

“It’s on the ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell list,” Steve says by way of explanation. That damned list of all the things they’ve agreed not to talk about.

Bucky wonders if Steve’s having nightmares of Siberia. The whole situation had gone on that list on day one. Tony hums his acknowledgement, and Bucky hears him rifling around before the sound of fabric dragging across the ground replaces it.

“Try this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s an electric blanket, Rogers, haven’t you used one of these yet?” Steve must shake his head because Tony lets out an incredulous noise and mumbles something under his breath, probably a jab at Steve, before he says, “they heat up. There are electrical coils all the way through, see?”

“What’s that one?”

“Weighted blanket. If you use them together, maybe it’ll help.”

“Why would anyone want a weighted blanket?” Steve asks, and FRIDAY immediately chimes in.

“Weighted blankets have multiple therapeutic benefits, Captain. They assist with sensory integration, calming and grounding for hyperarousal symptoms, concentration and improved sleep performance. Given your presenting symptoms, I believe this would be quite beneficial to you.”

“See, told you so.” Tony teases and Bucky can practically hear Steve rolling his eyes.

“FRIDAY told me so.”

“And FRIDAY is an extension of my own genius, so technically, I told you so.”

They share a short laugh together, something so rare these days, and Bucky strains to listen to what sounds like Steve readjusting on the couch. He pictures him buried under a mountain of blankets and bites back a smile, the flash of a smaller, sickly Steve piled under a heap of shabby woolen monstrosities riddled with holes, surfacing in his mind from their youth.

“I really appreciate it, Tony.”

“Anytime. You want to take those upstairs or are you going to hangout down here for a bit?”

“I’ll stay, for a little while anyway.” Steve replies and Tony bids him a good night sleep before he’s wandering on, no doubt anywhere but his bedroom. He never seems to stay long in one place anyways.

Bucky leans back against the fridge and draws a deep breath, calming his heartrate that’s been pounding in his ears through the whole exchange. The fridge is surprisingly welcoming so he presses harder against it, soaking in the purring and radiating warmth.

Maybe he’ll try and steal that weighted blanket later. Test it and see if it works, before he asks FRIDAY to order him one of his own.

When Steve’s breathing evens out enough that Bucky thinks he’s asleep, he whispers a quiet order to FRIDAY to deploy the cleaning bot again, and darts silently out of the room.

Sleep doesn’t come for a long while, but Bucky somehow feels marginally better.

** 2\. Natasha **

Bucky watches closely over the next few days and he shouldn’t really be surprised when nothing changes. Tony and Steve are still stiff around each other, running through their days as if they’re strangers existing under the same roof. The moment they shared together a few evenings prior seems non-existent.

And frankly, it is non-existent, for everyone save Bucky.

He does manage to try the weighted blanket and the heated blanket the next night he wakes up screaming. The feeling of air leaving Howard’s throat beneath his hand and Tony’s eyes bearing into his, standing over him as Howard’s life faded away, asking him if he even remembers is disturbingly vivid.

The weighted blanket makes him feel trapped, smothered, as if he’s being restrained and held down. A familiar taste of rubber and bile wells in his mouth and he scrambles out from underneath it, kicking it haphazardly across the floor with a glare of disdain.

The heated blanket makes him sweat. It’s too hot and sweltering and reminds him of a mission in South Africa where he’d killed three diplomats at point blank range.

Bucky contemplates asking FRIDAY to arrange a protocol similar to Steve’s but it doesn’t feel like a solution either, because he doesn’t spend a great deal of time worrying about his teammates. Maybe it’s selfish, or maybe it’s that he doesn’t have the same responsibility Steve does.

And he doesn’t want Stark to know about it if he did.

On a particularly difficult night, he thinks he’ll try the fridge again. The one in his own apartment doesn’t work; it’s either a newer model or one with fewer internal mechanisms because it’s not the same and the relief hovers just outside his reach.

He’s halfway down the hallway to the communal kitchen when the sound of the television brings him up short. It’s playing low at first, then mutes, and he picks up the sound of heavy, gasping breaths and the faintest patter of a heart racing too fast.

“Okay, hold on, I know I didn’t expect that either.” Tony’s voice floats down the hallway, soothing and gentle. “I’m not going to touch you, so just listen to the sound of my voice.”

Immediately, Bucky’s on guard. He waits, holding in a tight breath. Still.

“You’re okay, you’re safe. Whatever you’re seeing isn’t happening right now. You’re here with me. Can you tell me something you can see, Nat?”

“Blood.”

“No, try again, look at me, Red. I’m right here, and look, no blood. That’s not here with us right now. Try again, more specific. What colour is my shirt.”

Nat draws a shaky breath. “It’s blue.”

Bucky relaxes marginally, counting her heartbeats as the rhythm falters and begins to slow.

“That’s great, you’re doing great. Take another breath. Now, run your hand over the couch for me – how’s that feel, honey?”

“Cold, sticky.” She bites out.

Bucky has no idea what’s going on or what Tony’s up to, but something tells him to stay still. Stay hidden. This isn’t something he’s meant to be hearing or seeing.

This is private.

Tony chuckles softly. “That’s what happens when you’re all clammy and feeling up my leather couch. You’re alright, Nat, take another breath. Now something you can smell – probably Barton’s disgusting feet, right? I swear that smell has worked it’s way into the seams of this sofa by now.”

“Coffee. Must be you.” Natasha replies tightly.

This time he laughs outright, and there’s a shuffling noise and the crinkling of couch cushions. Bucky waits for another moment before he peeks his head around the corner, taking in the sight of them. Natasha is curled over into Tony’s arms now, fiery hair cascading over her shoulder as he cradles her to his chest and slowly rubs her back.

She’s still trembling, but her breath is coming in even, controlled gusts.

“I’m sorry,” She mumbles. “That hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“I mean, I think we probably could have predicted this if we’d thought it through a bit more.” Tony teases lightly. “Black Swan, that’s going on the Do Not Watch list, FRIDAY. Pull it off everyone’s list, actually, we’re banning it like the New York School Board.”

The reference means nothing to him, but he’s relieved to hear Natasha’s whispered, “thank you,” and decides he never needs to watch it, anyhow.

Bucky gives the fridge a forlorn glance, but thinks better of it, not wanting to intrude. Instead, he slips back to his room and sits on the edge of the bed, crinkling his toes in the soft carpet and letting his hands slide across the crisp, cool sheets.

He asks himself the same questions, what he can feel and see and touch. He takes a deep breath and holds it, then takes another, relishing the way it already makes him feel calmer.

Bucky doesn’t know how Tony knows this, or where he’s learned these little tricks he seems to be willing to share with his traumatized companions, but it works. At least for now.

At least long enough for him to fall back asleep and enjoy a few dreamless hours before the sun comes up and everything feels somehow different.

** 3\. Peter **

The Parker kid is his favourite new teammate, by far.

He’s young and naïve in a way that’s endearing really, but he can make quick decisions when he needs to and has a relatively good head on his shoulders. Bucky worries his soft heart is what might get him killed one day, so he starts taking more of an interest. 

Against Stark’s strict orders, Bucky teaches Parker how to shoot a number of his favourite firearms, including a crossbow. They spend countless hours correcting his form with Bucky kicking his legs apart so he doesn’t jump backwards on the recoil. Eventually, Peter can run the drills like a pro.

In return, Peter teaches him about the modern world of social media. He sets him up with a Twitter account and an Instagram account and tries to convince him to create small, miniscule videos of himself dancing for something he calls ‘TikTok’.

Bucky just glowers at him and reminds him, “the Winter Soldier doesn’t dance.”

It works for a while except one day where Steve is passing through and throws in, “Bucky used to take the dames dancing all the time when we were kids.”

Peter doesn’t press it, but he does insist on teaching Bucky how to properly use a hashtag and how to tag him in the photos that he uploads – Peter always shooting peace signs, clearly inherited from his eccentric mentor while Bucky, well, glares.

The one time he catches a smirk instead, Bucky pins him down with the weight of the metal arm and lets him squirm until he finds the photo and promptly deletes it.

Can’t have Peter ruining his image after all.

Bucky doesn’t love Peter’s slang but he always laughs at his horrible pop culture references because they make Tony groan and complain and threaten to send him to his room.

When Peter reminds him that he doesn’t _have_ a room at the Compound, Tony drags him up to one of the guest rooms, draws an awful mockery of a spider on the outside of the door in permanent marker and says it’s his, shoving him through and giving FRIDAY the order to lock him in. When Peter reappears a half hour later, he tells Tony how ‘lit’ it is that he has a room to himself.

It makes him feel like a real Avenger now, and that’s apparently ‘fire’.

It's an unexpected bonus that Tony spends a lot more time around Bucky if Peter is there, the young Spider-Boy acting as a pseudo-security blanket for them both. They watch a lot of movies because Tony only takes time off if Peter comes by, and Peter has a never-ending list he’s working through.

On this particular Wednesday Bucky joins them, curling up in an oversized armchair while Tony and Peter are propped up on the couch, sharing an outlandish amount of snacks. Apparently, like him and Steve, Parker will eat his way through house and home without a second glance.

Peter ends up dozing halfway through the movie, curling in on himself.

When his head droops, it lands on Tony’s shoulder and without even looking up from his tablet, Tony shifts to accommodate him. It’s incredibly intimate in a soft, paternal way that makes Bucky’s chest ache. Watching them together makes him think about home and comfort and _family_.

It’s been a long time since Bucky’s thought about family.

When Parker starts twitching in his sleep, Tony is immediately on guard.

“Pete?” He throws a concerned look over his shoulder and Bucky isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to do. If it were him, he’d want someone to wake him, because the way Peter starts flailing and struggling is suggestive of a nightmare.

“Wake up, kid.” Bucky says a little louder as Tony starts to shake his shoulder.

Peter comes awake with a start, fighting against Tony’s grip on his arm and shoving him so hard off the couch he slams down on his knees a few feet away, barely catching himself on his hands as he skids across the carpet. Tony hisses out a breath as rug burn sprouts, red and hot, on both palms.

“S-shit.” Peter exclaims, curling his arms protectively around himself and looking so pitiful and small. “I’m sorry Mr. Stark. I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!”

Tears threaten to spill over, and before Tony can hop to his feet Bucky is already there, crouching beside Peter on the floor next to the couch. He doesn’t reach out and touch him, it doesn’t seem right, but Peter catches his gaze and holds it, looking miserable and small.

“S’okay, kid.” Bucky says gruffly. “Not your fault. He’s okay. Just a nightmare, yeah?”

Peter nods.

“We all get ‘em. Part of being a hero. Not all glitz and glamour all the time, y’know?” This isn’t really Bucky’s schtick. He’s more of a grin-and-bear-it and keep-it-to-yourself kind of guy. Which, actually, might have something to do with the fact he’s not sleeping well, either.

Tony joins them, sitting back down on the couch beside Peter. When the boy immediately flinches away, Tony shifts closer, but slowly, into his space and puts a hand out – which actually lands on Bucky’s shoulder instead of Peter’s knee, where he’d expected.

“All good, Petey. You know Robocop here has done far worse to me, anyhow, right?”

Bucky jerks up. They don’t acknowledge this, period, but Tony simply smirks at him.

“Pretty sure that’s on the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell list Mr. Stark.” Peter reminds him, but he’s starting to smile too and the tension is starting to slip away. “You’re the one that’s always saying you can’t just break the rules whenever you feel like it, unlike some people.”

“Hey!” Bucky grunts, rolling his eyes at Peter’s sly look. “I never signed nothin’. That doesn’t even apply to me.”

“Sounds like a cop out.” Peter challenges.

“I wish that someone had told me about what I was really getting myself into with you two.” Bucky grumbles, pushing off the floor. He pauses at the arm of the couch. “No more movies. Why don’t you earn your keep and help Stark take a look at my arm, Parker? It’s been catching at the elbow.”

“What didn’t you say something?!” Tony demands, springing to his feet and tugging Parker up with him, already shoving them both towards the elevator.

“I’m sayin’ somethin’ right now, genius.”

Bucky’s arm is fine, really, but it gives them all a distraction.

Later, when they’re finished and Peter has gone home, Tony mumbles a tight thank you and something shifts in Bucky’s chest. He’s not sure what it is, or if he’s even ready to acknowledge it’s _something_ , but what he does know is that despite having nothing wrong, his arm seems to somehow be working a little better anyway. 

** 4\. Rhodey **

Bucky never saw Rhodes fall out of the sky.

Sam talks about it often, because Sam is annoying that way.

He’s sarcastic and rude and Bucky really, really wanted to dislike him over it but somehow, it’s never quite stuck. Apparently “talking it out” was a part of “healing” that Sam had learned from his two tours in the Middle East and a group of ex-military people he sees on Thursday nights and sings kumbaya with.

Sam is a support group kind of guy, and Bucky has always sort of hated that. When he learns that Tony hates it too, it makes him feel a little less guilty.

Nothing wrong with _not_ talking about your feelings, right?

Because of what’d happened, Sam’s often absent when Rhodes visits – sometimes he’ll hang around and make brief small talk, but when his eyes start lingering on Rhodes’ braces, words bitten back by the hair of his teeth, he makes polite excuses and exits quickly.

Tony would glare if he lingered too long and since Rhodes had put the whole almost-got-killed, broken-back-matter on the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell list, Sam is forced to suffer through his remorse on his own, yammering about it to Steve and Bucky during their morning runs instead.

Sam’s guilt was enough to eat them all alive, and Bucky wondered what would happen if he even gave them a glimpse of what _he’d_ done; what he remembered. What he still thinks too frequently for comfort.

Support groups would absolutely not be a good fit for him.

So, Bucky quickly learns that on the days when Sam talks about Rhodes, the nightmares will come on twice as strong, contorting into different images that still become his fault. Sometimes he was the one falling – dropping out of the sky with Steve trying to reach him in time, crashing into the Potomac.

Sometimes he’s falling to the bottom of the bunker in Siberia, and he wakes up screaming and sweating before he hits the ground, the lingering sound of Tony blasting repulsors rattling around in his head.

Apparently, Tony also struggles with the days that Rhodes wants to talk.

“Listen, Rhodey-bear, sour patch, my spicy little platypus –” Tony is rambling in the kitchen, a cup of coffee waving helplessly in the air as he makes dramatic motions – does he know Rhodes can’t see him? – back turned to Bucky.

He’s exhausted; it’s been at least three days since Bucky’s gotten enough sleep to appease a walrus, a fact he only knows because when Peter was texting him in the wee hours of the morning last week he let him know that, in fact, walruses could survive up to 84 hours without sleep.

The kid was so weird.

“Watch it, Stark.” Bucky growls, dodging the cup of coffee in pursuit of his own.

Tony rolls his eyes, apologetically really, but otherwise ignores him.

“I don’t know what to tell you, I am absolutely 100% not equip for this. Rhodey, pumpkin, sugar pie, you know me. Here are your options, per the Stark method. Have you tried drinking? – No? Slutting your way around Manhattan? – Also, no? Hmm, well would you like to come by this afternoon and try solder something?” There’s a pause. “Well why don’t we try all three then? In order? At the same time? Actually, scratch that last bit, you should never solder and slut at the same time. Have I ever shown you that burn scar on my–”

“ _Excuse me_.” Bucky cries, slapping both hands over his ears and Tony smirks.

The smaller man heaves a big sigh as Rhodes gives some massive stream of sentences Bucky is definitely not listening to. Desperately trying not to, actually. 

“Why don’t you call Steve, then? He’ll tell you to hit something or stare off into space until your sadness, I don’t know, dissolves or eats you alive. Seems to go one way or the other with him. He’s got that whole brooding thing going on big time these days.”

Bucky snorts and Tony leans an elbow on the counter, covering the mouthpiece.

“Hi, good morning, I’m aware that you’ve been effectively a member of the Soviet undead for seventy years, but I’m absolutely sure it was just as socially unacceptable to listen to other people’s telephone calls in the 40s, eh Terminator? Didn’t your ma teach you any manners? A little privacy?”

“It’s the communal floor, Stark, go take your call somewhere else.”

Bucky busies himself preparing a massive pan full of scrambled eggs. When Tony cocks an eyebrow at him he rolls his eyes and cracks a few more.

“No, it’s fine, that’s just Barnes eavesdropping. Do you want me to ask him if he could give me any times on devising a mindwiping machine for you?” Tony sighs, grumbles under his breath for a moment, then inclines his head towards Bucky in something akin to an apology. “Rhodey says he needs to apologize to you on my behalf because that was in poor taste.”

“Please stop talking to me.” Bucky replies baldly.

Tony snorts and when the subject changes, Bucky genuinely starts minding his business.

When the eggs are plated and the toast is popping out of the toaster, Tony starts saying his goodbyes and ends the call. He takes the plate Bucky shoves in his direction gratefully and starts to literally shovel it into his mouth.

“Now whose forgettin’ their Ma’s good manners?” Bucky joshes, giving him a disapproving look. Tony smiles obnoxious at him around a mouthful of toast. “What is it with you fellas and your disgusting eatin’ habits?”

“You whip that Brooklyn out for all the pretty girls, Barnes?”

“And the pretty boys.” He shoots back with a shrug. To his surprise, the tips of Tony’s ears colour into a bloodred flush he hadn’t anticipated. Interesting. “Rhodes having a hard time?”

Tony stumbles right past Bucky’s intentional tidbit. “I think it’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”

“You should tell him to call Sam.”

“He’s not going to talk to Sam about this.”

“Sam talks about him falling out of the sky all the time.” Tony gapes at him, because Bucky has clearly overstepped Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and gone straight for the jugular. “He regrets it, big time. Maybe he can take Rhodes to his support group and they can talk about their feelings together.”

“I have an anaphylactic response to emotional discussions.” Tony agrees, already tugging out his phone and typing a few quick words, likely to Rhodey.

“You do more than you let on.”

His head jerks up and he stiffens, back ramrod straight as if Bucky’s launched a frontal attack. For a minute he considers backing off a bit, but he wants Tony to know that he knows. He sees him for who he is.

“What?”

“You’re good with nightmares and stuff, right? You know things. Things that work.” Bucky presses.

“That stuff with Peter wasn’t anything – I don’t know anything about it, really – I don’t know what you’re –” Tony narrows his eyes. “What are you getting at, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugs, pushing the now empty plate back between them. Unsurprisingly, he likes this side of Tony too, all stumbling words and suspicion. So much suspicion.

The desire to kiss that scowl off his face barrels into Bucky like a train.

Apparently, figuring Tony out has been a guise his brain has put on as he helplessly falls for this intricate, complicated man.

“Ain’t gettin’ at nothin’, Tony. I’ll just be off to mind my own business, then.” Bucky sniffs, plucking the empty cup of coffee out of his hand and refilling it, before settling it back down in front of him. Tony glances between Bucky and the cup, as Bucky and the stack of dishes and cutlery he starts piling into the dishwasher.

Tony’s still looking at him, half dazed, as he wanders back off to his room.

That night, when he can’t sleep, he shoves a hand down his boxers and fists himself quickly and roughly. When he comes, he’s thinking about the pink tips of Tony’s ears and the way Tony’s soft, wet mouth might look wrapped around the head of his cock.

His orgasm knocks the breath out of him.

Bucky groans. He’s so fucked. 

** 5\. Bucky **

It’s fitting that by the time it’s Bucky’s turn for a little Stark therapy session, it comes with a helping of pain.

The nightmares have been so brutal they’ve started following him even when he’s awake, lingering in the space behind his eyelids. They’ve definitely gotten worse since Tony.

He has to stop thinking about him, because the more he thinks about him during the day – kissing his petulant mouth, sucking on the strong lines of his throat – the more he dreams about killing him.

Sometimes Bucky is in Steve’s place, smashing him to pieces with the shield. Sometimes he’s got his hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing the air from his lungs above the collar of the Black Sabbath shirt he loves so much. It’s brutal because it feels so, incredibly real and instead of being in the bunker, they’re now in Tony’s workshop, or the team’s gymnasium.

Bucky swears he can practically feel the stubble of Tony’s chin at the ends of his fingertips some nights.

And then there’s the words.

They’re louder tonight than they have been in a while, haunting him.

_Longing. Rusted. Furnace. Daybreak._

The mechanical whirl of the fridge whines in his ear as he presses himself closer, grinding his metal hand over the other to drown out everything else. The vibrations sink through his skin and rattle around in his bones, but he can’t seem to get close enough.

_Seventeen. Benign. Nine. Homecoming._

Bucky grits his teeth so hard he’s probably at risk of cracking his molars. Jaw aching from the pressure, he tastes blood from where he’s bit down hard on his inner cheek. It makes him want to retch when his brain taunts him, telling him it’s Tony’s blood.

He’s freezing.

_One. Freight car. Longing. Rusted._

His breathing is erratic and shallow but when he tries to slow it down, draw a gentle even breath like Tony might tell him to, his chest tightens even further and he feels like he’s suffocating. Bucky can’t breathe and he’s so fucking cold.

_Furnace. Daybreak._

His head is going to explode. God, he wants to scream, but if he screams, they’ll come running. Everyone will know and he’s been trying so, so hard. The weight of their disappointment, the potential for their _fear_. It’s too much.

 _Seventeen_.

Cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck.

Is this what it feels to go insane?

 _Seventeen_. _Seventeen. Seventeen._

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

The exclamation jolts him back to reality more than the sharp blast of pain in his leg, propped out flat on the floor in front of him, half mauled by the refrigerator door. The tension releases just a fraction as he forces himself to pull a deep, shuddering breath.

Tony is here. He’s okay. Tony is here.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tony demands, yanking the door back from where it’s caught on his calf. “You do remember I have a heart condition, right? This is unacceptable roommate behaviour.”

 _I’m not okay, Tony_.

When he opens his mouth, the words don’t come out. Bucky gazes up at him helplessly.

“Okay, okay, hold up, are you molesting our fridge? You know that in this century they have like, all sorts of different toys and equipment for that kind of stuff, right.” Tony is still talking at him but nothing’s making its way through. His voice floating just on top of the surface, like he’s speaking to him at the bottom of a lake.

A frozen lake. Where he’s already half-drowned.

A shifting, rustling sound next to him makes him tense again.

“Don’t come any closer.” He manages to hiss between gritted teeth, pressing back further into the crevice between the wall and the fridge.

He doesn’t need to hurt this man. Not anymore than he has already. Not when he’s so close to losing control.

Back the fuck up, idiot, he wants to scream at him, almost as desperately as he wants Tony to reach out and hold him.

“You got it, Robocop, I’ll keep my distance.” A pause. “Can you open your eyes and look at me.”

Bucky forces his eyes open, then, squinting into the dark between the flickering specks of colour as blood rushed back to his eyelids.

Tony’s across from him, kneeling on the white kitchen tiles. He had both his hands up, his body language open but guarded. A hesitant submission. The look on his face makes Bucky want to squirm and draw back into his room, slink away like a thief in the night. Or play dead.

He tries desperately to focus on the humming of the fridge, but without his ear pressed against it the buzzing was fading away and he’s cold again. So fucking cold.

“What’s this doing for you?” Tony asks gently, gesturing at his prone form.

He must look a mess. When he glances to the right, he can see the sheen of sweat his cheek has left on the fridge wall. It’s so warm.

“It… It’s the buzzing. And…”

“And?”

“The warmth. It’s buzzes and it’s warm.” Bucky grounds out, humiliation searing through his chest.

The words in his head are still there, echoing softer now. Tony’s voice is soothing and he’s desperately trying to ground himself in it; force the programming back into the cavern of his disturbing mind.

Tony nods thoughtfully, “Nightmares, right?” Bucky doesn’t respond, doesn’t really need to because that assumption is safer anyway. “Here, try this, it’ll help.”

Before his eyes, Tony holds up the fingers of his right hands. He presses the pointer finger to the thumb, squeezing, then repeats the motion with his middle finger, ring finger, pinky, and slides into a gentle repetition.

Bucky tries to repeat the motion, metal fingers clicking together and grinding so hard the joints whine with strain.

“Okay, yeah, no, that’s not the point. You’re not trying to hurt yourself. You’re trying to ground yourself. It’s supposed to be calming.” Tony corrects him, maintaining a steady pace as he continues to press his fingers together. “Use your other hand. It can help if you say something to yourself. You know, like, that positive self-talk mumbo jumbo the shrinks are always pushing. Only _you_ can make yourself better and all that trash. Try this: Breathe. And. Be. Calm.” He says the simple phrase slowly in time with the squeezing.

Bucky wants to whimper. It’s all so pathetic, he wishes the world will just swallow him up and let him die already.

“Say it.” Tony urges.

“ _Breatheandbecalm_.” Bucky grunts all at once, fingers flying over each over each other. It’s too fast. It’s not soothing. This is so stupid. Why is Tony even here? Why is he wasting his time with him? He should be fleeing back down to the safety of his workshop where Bucky can’t hurt him, and let Bucky suffer with his demons alone.

But Tony is patient with him, and urges him to try again.

He eases back until he’s sitting across from him, back against the cabinet doors on the island. Then, he’s making himself more comfortable as if the ex-assassin isn’t a threat to him; the biggest threat of all inside the very walls of his home, at least like this.

“Put your ear back against the fridge, Frozone,” Tony encourages, “Listen to the humming, try to focus on the warmth, do the finger thing and then say the phrase. It’ll help.”

Bucky puts all the pieces together and they sit there together, in the silence of the early morning, until eventually he starts to calm. It creeps towards him and then enfolds him all at once. His limbs prickly and tingle, like thawing frostbite, but they warm.

The voice is gone and it’s blissfully silent in his brain.

“Where did you pick that trick up?” Bucky asks finally, feeling lighter. More at ease.

Tony smirks at him. “JARVIS used to try and get me to do them. Sometimes they work. You going to be okay?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” He shoves off the floor and starts for the elevator, before he pauses in the doorway. “You tell anyone about this and I’m rewiring that arm into a bomb.”

Bucky snorts, and doesn’t bother with a reply.

When he drifts off to sleep that night, he dreams of Tony’s soft chocolate eyes and what he imagines much be the warmth of being cradled in his firm embrace.

** +1. Tony **

When it’s Bucky’s turn to fish Tony out of the depths of his workshop, he isn’t even mad. He’s long past half-gone on the fella by now, and since things have picked up at Stark Industries, Bucky hasn’t seen near enough of him.

The alarm always starts going off in ten-minute increments, a half hour before Tony hits his forty-eight-hour mark. FRIDAY provides the Tower inhabitants with a projected countdown warning that should Tony fail to reappear, someone – they have a schedule now – needs to fish him out before she overrides all power to the workshop.

“What’s the deal, FRI?” Bucky asks on a sigh; he’d genuinely hoped they could have given Tony the benefit of the doubt this time. The last few times Tony has reappeared of his own accord, albeit moments before the clock runs down.

“Boss isn’t actually reacting to the alarm, Sergeant Barnes. He appears to be asleep.”

“Asleep? In the shop?”

“He’s got a futon down there for ‘power naps’.” She explains sarcastically. Was a robot in the ceiling supposed to sound that disapproving?

“So, give him a louder alarm, then?” Bucky grumbles, already halfway to the elevator as Sam wiggles his fingers at him, mocking him from the table where he demolishes the rest of their ice cream without him. Bucky shoots him the finger.

“It’s against the protocol – Boss has panic attacks and the alarms are a trigger. You’ll need to retrieve him yourself, Sergeant.”

Tony’s workshop is dark save for the faint glow of the last holographic screen Tony’d been working from. Ploughing through the maze of scrap metal and oversized tools, he pats DUM-E’s strut when he whirrs softly, and finally sees Tony, unconscious and thrashing on a thready old futon in the corner.

The futon doesn’t make any sense, because Tony wouldn’t own a piece of furniture this disgusting in his life. All the same, Tony twists and turns, face contorted in interrupted sleep.

“Wake up.” Bucky grunts, dropping into a crouch beside his head. “Wake up, Stark.”

When Tony jumps awake with a sharp jolt, he slaps his hands up in front of him. One hand flies higher to protect his face while the other juts out in front of his chest, protecting the housing unit that glows faintly beneath his clothes.

“Shh, you’re okay. It’s me, Tony. ‘S just me.” Bucky murmurs, holding his hands up in front of him.

Tony looks disoriented and confused, eyes glazed over in a way he’s seen before, way back in the war. It almost looks like–

“Christ, Tony, you said there were nightmares but you didn’t say – you never said it was battle fatigue. This is serious stuff, doll.” Bucky breathes out, watching as Tony literally reverts back into his shell. He tugs the blanket twisted at his feet up and over his head, body curling over to the side, pressing his face into the futon and taking a deep, stunted breath.

He watches as Tony holds the air in his chest, releases it steadily and pauses before starting again. It’s rhythmic and purposeful, and slowly but surely it starts to slow down his heart rate. The trembling in his hands continue, but his spine relaxes by a few degrees.

Bucky reaches out a hand, boldly, placing it over one of his. Tony doesn’t immediately shake him off, so that’s a win.

“It’s okay, ‘s no shame in it.”

“Can’t call it battle fatigue if you haven’t seen active combat. They don’t even call it that anymore. Also, that’s not what this is.”

“You’re smarter than that.” Bucky replies, softly. “They ain’t been callin’ it Civil War for nothing, doll. And I’m sure there’s much more, besides.”

One brown eye peeks up at him from beneath the blankets, but he says nothing. As always, Tony gives absolutely nothing away until he’s ready to, only if he chooses to.

“Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours, sweet thing. You’re not sleepin’. You haven’t been sleepin’ for a while. You havin’ flashbacks?”

Tony nods slowly, groaning as he drags a hand across his face. “It’s not a big deal.” When Bucky pins him with a glare he reluctantly continues. “Fine. I just keep thinking if I can make things easier for everyone, maybe I’ll have paid my dues, you know? That if I can just fix it all, maybe it’ll stop.”

“That… doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well nobody asked you.” Tony shoots back, yanking on the hand in Bucky’s grasp which he only grips tighter.

“Hey, relax. You don’t have any dues to pay. If anything, you’ve already done more than enough. Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing for the rest of the team. Do you think this is some sort of penance? We all got sins, Tony. Yours ain’t any worse than the rest of ours, not by half.”

Tony sighs. “I just – I keep wondering–”

“What?”

“Why this stuff seems to work for everyone else but I can’t get it to work for me, you know? I can fix everyone else – the breathing, the grounding shit, it works for everyone else – but I can’t get any fucking sleep. Sometimes it worked – before, with JARVIS. And FRIDAY tries… she really does, but...” He huffs, angrily. “It’s driving me insane.”

And just like that all the pieces fall into place, and Bucky’s hypothesis disintegrates before his eyes.

It hasn’t been about a sense of contentment or job-well-done. It’s been about trying to fix himself through fixing the rest of them, holding them all together with tape and glue when his own wounds gape and need stitching.

“You’re so busy looking out for everyone else.” Bucky murmurs, eyes cataloguing the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s biting down hard on the inside of his lip, the skin creasing just so above Tony’s sharp chin. “You need someone to look out for you for a change.”

Tony laughs, humourlessly. “Nobody’s that stupid.”

“I’m that stupid, pal.” The words are out his mouth but he can’t bring himself to regret them, grip slipping up to wrap around Tony’s forearm and squeeze. He’ll never let him go; if Tony lets him in now, Bucky will stay forever.

As long as he’ll have him.

Unexpectedly, Tony jolts forward, pressing his lips against Bucky’s. It’s closed-mouth and tight, on the wrong side of too hard. Their teeth knock together behind their lips and Bucky curses without thinking, yanking back.

The stricken look on Tony’s face turns his blood to ice and he holds him fast when he tries to pull back, pull away.

“Tony, wait–”

Bucky leans in and gives it a second try, catching Tony’s bottom lip between his own in a soft, gentle kiss, begging him with everything in his mind to stay; to try.

Tony opens beautifully, all soft, wet mouth and desperate hands, yanking on the knot if his hair to tug it free and bury his fingers in it. He uses the leverage to try and take control, shifting forward to try and possess Bucky, claim him.

But this moment belongs to Bucky. He forces Tony back, looming over him on the futon and pressing him down onto his back. When Tony tugs him forward, he goes seamlessly, a leg on the edge to leverage himself up. Half beneath him now, Tony moans low in his chest, curling a leg around his waist and thrusting up against him immediately.

The way his body responds, it’s as if he’s half-starved for it.

The slip of his tongue between Bucky’s lips is his undoing. It’s hot and slick, thick and licking deep into his mouth to war with his own. Tony nips and sucks, breaking his mouth away with a gasp to lave hot, open-mouthed kisses along the span of Bucky’s throat.

“You know, I’ve done this – oh, god – I’ve tried this before and it hasn’t… hasn’t worked.” The words come out stunted as Bucky licks across his collarbone, shoving his t-shirt up so he can feel the warm, smooth expanse of his chest under his hand.

Tony gasps again when the cool metal spreads wide over his ribcage.

“Have you?” Bucky murmured, “Slutted your way through Manhattan, I think you said, hm?”

“T-That’s right.”

“Does that mean you want me to stop?”

“Christ, no.”

Bucky smirked into his skin, relishing the way Tony’s nails dragged along the sensitive dip in his lower back as he shifted down the futon. Scattering kisses along his chest and spending a respectable amount of time tending to his flat nipples, Bucky slowly continued his pursuit downward.

Tony had been dressed comfortably, and with his shirt now somewhere on the floor nearby, he was left only in a pair of thin, grey sweats. Bucky drags his lips across the sliver of hair that leads down from Tony’s belly button and disappeared beneath his waistband, listening to the way Tony inhales sharply.

“Let’s try something a little different, then.” Bucky says thickly, voice dropping low at the thought of unwrapping this man and taking him apart.

“What’s that?” Tony croaks.

“I’ll trade you. An orgasm for a conversation.” Bucky proposes, then immediately added, “about why you ain’t sleepin’. We’ll both try talkin’ it through. After.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “And if I don’t want to talk about it? Then what, this whole thing was just some game? Cold, Barnes. That’s cold.”

Bucky shrugs, fiddling with the drawstring on Tony’s sweats. Under his attention, he can see the distinct outline of Tony’s cock through his pants, twitching and starting to slowly dampen the fabric.

“It’s not a game, Stark. I want you, hell, ‘course I want you. I’ll make you come either way, no strings. But we both know that won’t make ya feel any better in the long run.”

“I think it’ll make me feel worlds better.” Tony leers.

When Bucky trails a finger along the bulge in his pants and Tony groans, his eyes clocking the movements, Bucky knows that he’s won.

“Fine – _fuck_ – fine, I’ll do it. Mmfph. Is this an approved torture technique or something because you’re – Bucky damnit – I’ll tell you anything you want me to. Fuck, is this actually happening right now?”

Bucky smirks into the curve of Tony’s hip, soaring high on adrenaline and arousal. He shoves the sweats down his legs, letting Tony kick them the rest of the way off before he’s taking him in hand.

Tony’s cock is gorgeous, all thick veins and red, slick head, standing at perfect attention and begging to be touched. He’s already drooling steadily, little shimmers of pre-come blooming at the surface and slipping down the length of him.

When Bucky swiped his tongue across the top, Tony jolts and gasps – so responsive – and Bucky doesn’t even try to resist swallowing him all the way down.

He works him over gentle and slow at first, capturing the weight of him in his mouth and testing the way Tony shakes and moans as he traces his tongue along the underside of the head, daring to take him in to the root just to hear Tony cry out.

“Shit Bucky, I’m making that illegal. No one should be that good with their mouth. Fuck.” Tony gasps out, tangling his fingers in his hair and tugging, keeping him close.

Bucky practically purrs around him and Tony bucks up into the sensation. So bossy, his little genius. Splaying his fingers wide across his hips he pins him in place and, oh, Tony liked that.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, doll.”

Bucky lets Tony’s cock slip from his mouth with an obscene _pop_ as it smacks back across his stomach. He shifts back over him, kissing him hard before sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

Tony’s eyes dilate all the way to black when Bucky pulls back, sliding a finger across his lips lightly before gently pushing in.

“Suck.”

Tony swallows hard around him, keeping Bucky’s gaze as he immediately sets to work. He fellates Bucky’s metal finger like it’s his sole purpose in life, laving it sloppily until saliva pools and spills down into Bucky’s palm. When Bucky’s satisfied, he rewards him with a hard, short kiss before readjusting himself back down between his legs.

“Don’t choke me on your dick, Stark.” He warns darkly, swallowing him down again before tracing the slick finger along Tony’s perineum, tracing a light, soft circle over his hole.

“God, you’re a depraved one, aren’t you?”

“You love it.” Bucky grunts, pushing in and marvelling in the small shudder that runs through Tony he thinks must be a response to the cool intrusion of metal.

Tony thrusts up into his mouth, always pushing and testing his limits, but Bucky holds him down at the hip, revelling in the whimper that pulls from his chest.

Bucky redoubles his efforts, sucking hard at the length of him and watching as one, then two silver fingers disappear over and over again inside his body. When he finds the right spot, Tony lets him know as plainly as he does everything else, rewarding Bucky with a stream of curses and his own name, recited over and over like a prayer.

“That’s good, that’s so good. Better than good, amazing, Bucky. God, your mouth. Your tongue. Christ Buck, give a man a chance, here!”

Bucky immediately backs off, sucking lazily at the tip and slowing to a gentle glide of his fingers inside Tony.

“Fuck, no don’t _stop_. Don’t listen to me – don’t ever listen to me. Please don’t stop, sweetheart. I’m so close gorgeous, handsome, you’re perfect. Look at that fucking mouth stuffed full of my cock – you look amazing. Shit, please Bucky, come on.”

The more Tony babbled the harder he pushes him, adding a third finger until Tony was writhing and trying to pump up into Bucky’s mouth. He lets Tony slip into the back of his throat, swallowing around him repeatedly and preening under the praise of his moans.

Bless his non-existent gag reflex.

It hits him hard, how badly Bucky wants to absolutely wreck this beautiful, transcendent man. Tony rewards him with a sharp intake of breath, body quivering underneath his fingertips.

“This is your warning, sweetheart.” Tony gasps out, and Bucky spares him a provocative glance, catching his heavily lidded eyes as he crooks his fingers across Tony’s prostate again. “Oh, _fuck me_.” Tony hisses, body tensing and curling upward as he comes in sharp, pulsing spurts down the back of Bucky’s throat.

Bucky swallows greedily, taking every last drop and pressing on that hidden bundle of nerves until Tony’s whimpering and twisting away, oversensitive and fucked out. He shoots Tony a wolfish grin from between his legs, releasing his spent prick and resting a cheek on folded hands over one of Tony’s thighs.

“Shut up.”

Bucky snorts. “Didn’t say anything, doll.”

“Get up here.”

“You’re bossy after you come. Aren’t you support to be sweet and soft? Or grateful, at the very least?”

“I’ll show you grateful.” Tony mutters, kissing him hard when Bucky props himself up on an elbow and leans down over him. A deft hand pops open the button on his jeans and slides in, grasping Bucky’s cock just on the right side of too tight and stroking hard from root to tip.

He bucks into Tony’s grip and groans, forehead colliding with Tony’s shoulder.

“This is going to be embarrassingly fast, sugar.” Bucky grunts, pleasure already fizzling along the length of his spine and drawing tense in the pit of his stomach.

“Just let me have it, sweetheart. You made me feel so good.” Tony purrs in his ear. “Let me return the favour.”

When he traces the shell of Bucky’s ear with his tongue, swiping his thumbing over the head of his cock, Bucky knows he’s done for. It isn’t more than a half-dozen strokes before he’s spilling across Tony’s fists, the arm holding himself up actually trembling as pleasure rockets through his chest and explodes behind his eyes.

Bucky comes gasping, pressing open-mouthed kisses into Tony’s chest as he drifts back slowly. Everything is so much clearer now, right and easy and relaxed.

He pulls away, only for a second, to grab a cloth from a clean stack on the nearby workbench and dragging it across his stomach, alternating between drying himself off and licking at the mess between Tony’s fingers.

Tony whines at the sight. “You’re evil.”

“How you feelin’, doll?” Bucky hums, buttoning his pants and dragging Tony into his lap, still naked, and wrapped in the blanket that had fallen to the floor. Tony practically sags in his arms, sated but with an aura of melancholy that makes Bucky’s heart ache.

“I did not expect this.” Tony admits.

“Neither did I.”

“But I liked it.”

“Me too,” Bucky murmurs, pressing his mouth just behind his ear. “Talk to me, Tony.” When Tony gives him a dubious look, he backs off slightly and quietly asks, “do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

The immediacy of the response genuinely seems to shock them both.

“I trust you too, so let’s just… set aside all these rules about things we’re not supposed to talk about. I’ve been thinkin’ that’s probably half the problem, anyways. Tell me what’s going on.”

Tony takes a deep breath and without meeting his eye, Bucky’s brave little superhero quietly spills. Hesitantly, he’s handing over the weight of his nightmares and flashbacks, all the pain and difficulty that’s been following him not for weeks or months, but years.

Bucky’s heart breaks for him, because instead of specific memories plaguing him, he quickly learns it’s _everything_.

There are a mixture of memories he doesn’t recognize – wormholes and killer robots and a particularly graphic nightmare of Pepper falling into a pit of flames. The ones he does recognize are hard to hear, but he manages; Steve’s disapproving glare and all his lies, being crushed under the weight of thrown vehicles, Rhodey plummeting from the sky, Peter prone on the ground, bleeding.

The video of his parents.

The shield in his chest.

It could have been minutes or hours, but when Tony finally lays it all out, Bucky holds him quietly and strokes a single hand along his back, firm and tethered to the present. He trades Tony’s secrets for his own, all explosions and screams and blood. The faces of the people he’s taken, lives snuffed out beneath his hand or at the end of his gun.

Bucky lets the nightmares of Siberia spill forth to lay between them, slotting into Tony’s own. They’re two sides of the same horrific picture.

Finally, he tells Tony about the words, quietly and wishing he could claw them back immediately. Tony simply presses his lips into the base of his throat. 

“Well, we’re pretty fucked.” Tony says blithely after a few long moments.

“Yeah.”

“I actually feel better.”

Bucky chuckles, wrapping both arms loosely around his waist. “I think I do too.”

“Maybe this could work for us?”

“The talking? Sam’ll be so thrilled.”

“And the sex. Definitely don’t forget about the sex.” Tony adds with a grin, running a hand through his hair. Fingers trail along his jaw, curving around his neck. It’s as if Tony can’t stop touching him. Bucky knows the feeling.

“Mm, careful there Stark, you’re getting dangerously close to relationship territory.” Bucky tries to keep his voice light and teasing, but he can hear it fall flat immediately. When Tony tips his chin down and pulls him into another sweet, slow kiss, he tries to relax and ease into it.

“That wouldn’t be completely horrible, would it?”

When Bucky takes his next breath, he thinks it must be the first full breath he’s taken in seventy years. Tony is warm and gentle in his arms, offering him the future on a silver platter and that’s… well, that’s just Tony, isn’t it? Offering everything he has. Willing to give Bucky it all.

It’s more than enough.

Bucky smiles against his lips.

“No, that wouldn’t be horrible at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Stay well.


End file.
